No man's land
by Idlesana
Summary: Romano and England were all too eager to start a war, when all Spain and France wanted was love. Spain/S.Italy, France/England
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.

Hello to you. I found myself loving the shit out of Spain/Romano and France/England so I started to write. Aah, I dunno what'll come of this but I hope you enjoy it anyway. xD

Please excuse Prussia and his cussing.

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Prussia couldn't stop laughing at the sight of his two former allies. The loud sound of schadenfreude rang all over the large hallways of where the meetings of the world were held and many countries turned their heads to look what it was about, then, upon seeing it was just Prussia being an ass, turned to mind their own business again.

"Y-you stupid fucks," he managed to say as he struggled to breath. "What the hell happened?"

He looked at both Spain and France who were standing in front of him, both sporting rather painful looking black eyes. The angry shade of purple and gray was covering the upper corner of the Frenchman's eye, leaving the impression that a violent assault had landed on his temple while Spain's was more on his cheek.

"I discovered something wonderful!" Spain said, all too cheerful for someone so beaten up.

"I discovered something terrible." France responded sulkily, covering his beaten eye with his hand. He glanced at the beaming Spain beside him and Prussia watched with tremors of mirth running up and down his spine, as the Frenchman tugged Spain's shirt from his pants and slid his hand under it in some sort of a twisted revenge for not being as miserable as he.

Spain noticed nothing. Prussia was amused.

"So what did you two discover, then?"

"I'm in love," Spain said enthusiastically, waving his arms in excitement. "With Romano!"

"The fuck? How is that anything new!?" Really, the man had been all over the boy since forever. Heck, everyone knew that! You'd have to be blind not to notice. Well, blind or _Spain_.

Spain blinked, not quite getting it. The albino just sighed and rolled his eyes, resting his hand on his hip. "Let me guess. The moment you realized you were in love you ran straight to that grumpy little Italian hottie, confessed and tried to kiss him. Little bastard then freaked out and punched you in the face. Das ende."

France leaned against the tanned nation who had his mouth open in wonder, trying to ask how the hell Prussia could know all that, but was unable to do so in his amazement. Giving the poor confused man a hug, France sighed dramatically. "Our Spain has always been a bit slow."

"What about you then?" Prussia asked, responding France's _I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it_ look with a sadistic smirk full of mockery. "Were you rejected again, poor bastard."

"Actually, I-" France started, straightening his back in an attempt to seem less miserable. "I'm in love as well."

Spain, still in his arms, gasped in delight. "Isn't that great?"

"Yeah," Prussia said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "How unexpected from a guy who's in love with everything that's doable."

"Ah, you don't get it at all, mes amours!" He mourned, the back of his hand resting on his forehead to create comical drama.

"Who is it then?"

The blond man froze for a while, then slumping into the depressed stage he had started his not so good day with. Aware that his two friends were looking at him expectantly, he covered his face with his hands and spoke with all the misery he had in him.

"An Englishman."

A silence hung around them for a while before Prussia broke it.

"Wait, wait, wait," he said, grabbing the Frenchman's tie. "You mean THE Englishman? With the eyebrows? The one who can't cook to save his life? The one who bullied our Spain-boy here? The one who's kicked your sorry ass more that it can be kicked!?"

When he received a weak nod from the blond, Prussia almost gave him another black eye to match.

"And the black eye?" he asked after he had managed to hold himself back.

"Well, after I realized it I went straight to confess to him and tried to kiss him but he freaked out and punched me in the face."

"...I can't believe how pathetic you two are." Prussia said with a sigh, shaking his head and letting go of the man's tie.

"If you're a man, just throw them to the wall and take them!" He declared loudly, the mad glint from his former days returning into his eyes as he gave his golden advice. "For fuck's sake, I can't believe I ever allied such useless dipshits!"

"Oh?" Was breathed into Prussia's ear suddenly, and the man froze dead in the middle of his madman laugh, a drop of sweat forming on his brow.

France and Spain watched as Hungary appeared from nowhere, an odd sense of perversity lingering around her. "If I remember correctly," she breathed into the albino's hair. "When you confessed to me and tried to kiss me something far more pathetic happened."

Prussia visibly shivered, France noted in fascination.

"After how many weeks was it that you woke up from that coma?"

"Sorry guys, I gotta go." And with that, the Prussian was no more, his retreat quick but not as passionate as an Italian's, Spain noted. The only thing he had left behind was a giggling Hungarian, eying the two nations sweetly, but unable to conceal the obvious hunger in her eyes.

"Just for the record," she said. "I agree with what Prussia said." then she swirled around and continued on her way with a skip in her step and a camera in hand.

"...Just throw them to the wall, huh?" France mused as he patted Spain on the butt.

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To Be Continued... (obviously)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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"What do you think I should do?"

France said nothing, just swirled the wine in his glass a bit before taking a sip.

"Romano's avoiding me~" came another whine from Spain, who had had enough wine to make him talk even more than usual but not enough to knock him out and shut him up. "His forte is running away, you know? I never had a chance!"

Chance? Heck, Spain would have his chance as soon as he managed to catch the moody Italian and do his stuff against the highly recommended wall, because it wasn't that hard to see that Romano was all over the Spaniard as well. In denial or not.

He didn't mention this to Spain, though, because France had troubles of his own. Seriously. Him and England?

"Don't come asking me for advice when I could use some myself right now," the blond said with a sigh, drinking the rest of his red elixir in one undignified gulp. Oh, he'd need more of this for it to hit the spot. Much more.

"Here I'm supposed to be the paragon of amour and yet I have no idea what to do..." he complained while taking another bottle of wine from the table where he had brought a lot of it so that he and Spain could get in higher spirits on France's balcony.

"I mean, who even wants to be in love with someone with such dirty blond hair, caterpillars for eyebrows, a sense of taste for nothing but tea and-"

Spain just watched him rant on and on, taking the bottle from his friend when he ditched the glass and went to drink straight from the bottle instead. Dios mio, even someone as dense as Spain could understand how in deep the Frenchman was if he was dropping proper etiquette over this.

"You're being awfully mean," the Spaniard said, taking a gulp from the bottle himself, the red on his cheeks deepening its shade. "You should treat him nice."

Be nice? To his love interest? Now there's an idea, France could definitely see what Spain was trying to say with that. Only, he and England had been fighting for as long as he could remember and even the rare moments of kindness usually found the other's fist trying to break a nose at the end of the day. Had it been anyone else...

"Why can't I be in love with you?" France whined as he leaned on Spain and gave him a hug instead when the other kept the bottle from out of his reach. "You have green eyes too. Just dye your hair blond and be my England."

"But I want Lovino, not you." Ah, how blunt. France would have clutched his heart from the rejection if he hadn't had more ideas in his head.

"I have nothing against threesomes."

It got him an unexpected reaction though, and France let out a surprised yelp when the other pushed him away and grabbed the collar of his shirt, eyes narrowing dangerously and voice cold as ice. "I'm not sharing."

But despite his surprise, France was quick to smirk and purr into Spain's face. "Not even with petit Feliciano?"

Ho, look at that hand loosen its hold on his collar. Spain's eyes grew dazed and it looked like he wasn't far from drooling all over himself. And now France had the bottle of wine all to himself, emptying the little Spain had left in it.

"You know," the blond broke the silence after a while, bringing Spain back down from whatever heaven his mind had just flew into. "You are always spoiling Romano. Maybe you should try some reverse psychology on him, yes?"

"Huh?" Spain blinked, wiping the saliva on his chin with the back of his hand.

"Be mean to him. Make him show some appreciation." France shrugged.

"B-but I'm not sure I know how to be mean."

"That's not what I heard from your little south Americans." It was a hit directed right under Spain's belt, he knew. The man gave him a weak smile and rubbed the back of his head, looking a bit troubled by his comment. But even cheap shots were allowed in love and war! Yes.

Definitely.

In silence they opened a new bottle. It took three of them to make them unconscious.

* * *

To Be Continued...

All right, I admit it. I love conqueror!Spain. And I love how he's drooling after both Italies too. xD

Muh muh, a bit uneventful here, isn't it? Well, maybe in the next chapter then, yes?

Comment and criticize!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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"I'm here!"

England spit out his tea as the front door was banged open, followed with loud laughter. The source of it? America. For a while the Brit just settled on staring at his kicked in door, eyes wide in disbelief and mouth open, the tea still remaining in his mouth falling on his clothes in small rivers.

"Bloody hell, Alfred!" he shouted, settling his teacup carefully on the table, not wanting to risk breaking it. Breaking the invaders skull, on the other hand, he wouldn't mind. "Don't come barging into my house without permission!"

"It's okay, right? It's not like you were doing anything important at the moment." America said, full of confidence, making England glance at the embroidery he was about to continue after finishing his tea. He tried to hide his blush with a cough.

"I have always better things to do than to see your stupid face."

"And I would never visit you if it wasn't really, really important!"

They stared at each other for a while, England glaring and America looking disturbingly cheerful.

"So anyway," the younger nation started, thinking the usual formalities were over and done with, "you know what I heard?"

"_I_ heard the sound of my door breaking when you decided to waltz in, you git. You better pay for it," the Englishman replied moodily, fetching a towel to wipe clean the spilled tea.

Ignoring the claim for damages completely (hey, the door was locked and he needed to get in, what else was there to do?) America followed the other into the kitchen, only to have England walk past him into the living room again. Leaning against the door frame, the younger blond watched the other's back as he attempted to wipe the table.

"I heard France is in love with you." England paused briefly with the wiping, then resuming with more ferocity. Poor table.

"Where did you hear that from?"

"I think..." America tilted his head and furrowed his brow in thought. "Portugal heard Spain talking to himself and discussed it with Brazil who then told Cuba who told Canada who told me," he finished, nodding to agree with himself that that was how it went.

England gritted his teeth, trying to will away his blush. Damn them freaking Latins and their thirst for gossip. France's joke was getting way out of hand.

"But that's not why I'm here!" America suddenly declared and walked over to the smaller blond, grabbing a hold his shoulder and spinning him around to face him. "Would you cook for me?" He asked hopefully.

Sure, it took the Brit by surprise, but for someone to actually ask him to cook made him feel somewhat happy. Plus the look on his former colony's face made him all sentimental thinking back in the day when the boy was actually cute. Not to mention it was a distraction from the France issue.

"S-sure," he replied in his bliss, not thinking too much about the American's motives. Not until he already had an apron on and something was smoking on his frying pan, anyway.

Snapping out of it the moment his mind ran out fluffy flashbacks of the times he spent on America's soil, he spun around, accusation marring his face. "Why am I cooking for you?"

"Huh?" America looked at him, confused. "Because I just asked you to?" He then continued to raid the cupboards, letting out a delighted cheer when he found store-bought cookies.

"No, I mean why would you come all this way just to get me to cook for you?"

The American looked away suspiciously, stuffing his mouth full of cookies and mumbled something inaudible.

"Out with it," England demanded, not minding that his food was in flames by now.

"Iwanttopoisonapolarbear," the other repeated, speaking quickly and hoping that England would leave it at that. Which he knew the other wouldn't, but he could always dream. He was America, after all! The land of dreams and hopes and other such awesome things.

"What?" the older nation asked, not sure if he had heard correctly.

"A Canadian polar bear," America specified, pointing at the flames rioting on the frying pan to distract the other while he spoke. "I want to get rid of one so I thought I'd poison it with your food so that it would look like a natural death."

It was magic, he was sure, because as soon as he had finished exposing his ingenious plan of murder, he had flown out of the house with a bruise shaped like the bottom of a boot beautifying his left ass cheek. He landed with a painful thud, barely managing to roll out of the way before the still burning frying pan managed to hit him in the face.

"You're all bloody wankers!" Was what he heard England shout before banging his broken door shut unsuccessfully.

Oh well, at least he got his food. Kumajirou was so gonna get it.

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To Be Continued...

I- I dunno why America is here! D: I guess his awesomeness just demanded to be written. Oh well.

Comment and criticize!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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Spain stood outside the house where both Italies lived these days. He had been coming here a lot in the past weeks, trying to chase and court and woo Romano silly. Not that any of that had worked, Spain sighed, chuckling a bit when he spotted their neighbor looking at him suspiciously.

"I'm not going to sing today," he hollered, smiling. "I didn't even bring my guitar, see?"

No, there was no guitar today. No flowers or tomatoes either. Just Spain. The only thing he had to offer. The old man just shook his head and continued to pretend like he was minding his own business.

Knocking on the door, Spain kept his smile on, just in case tonight would be an exception and Romano would actually open the door for him. It didn't happen, but his heart leaped in joy anyway, when he was greeted by a sleepy Veneziano. The young man rubbed his eyes before offering him a happy smile.

"Ah, Spain-niichan!" He said, delighted to see him.

"Ita-chan!" Spain laughed, pulling the younger nation into a hug. "You're actually home? I almost thought you'd eloped with Germany."

"Ve~" Despite hugging the man back, Italy squirmed a bit, feeling uncomfortable in Spain's bone-crushing hug. Also, the fact that Romano could probably see them, or at least hear them, from his room made him feel really uneasy.

He tried to pat Spain's back in a silent plea to be let go, but the man wasn't someone to do things half-heartedly, and so he kept his grip and poured all the unspent love he had preserved for the moment he caught Romano into a hug like this, onto the younger Italian brother.

"You're so cuuute!" Spain cooed, rubbing his cheek against Italy's, not even noticing when a pen sharpener came flying and hit him to the side of his head. The northern Italy noticed this though, and sent an apologetic look to his brother who was glaring at them from the second floor window.

"Um, did you come to see Lovino-niichan?" Italy asked, sighing in relief when Spain stopped his cuddling as if just now remembering why he had came there in the first place. He let go of the younger Italian and smiled.

"Yes, is he at home?" He asked, fisting his hands in an attempt to fight down the urge to pinch Veneziano's cute cheeks.

"Um," the other fidgeted, remembering Romano's threat what would happen if he aided Spain in his search for romance in any way. Then again, if Spain did succeed then Romano would be too happy to carry out those threats. He also wanted Spain to be happy.

But if Italy was something, it was a useless coward, and so he chose to stick on his brother's side in order to protect Germany from the horrible influence of the Italian mafia. For now at least.

But before he could answer, Spain already had a somewhat sad smile on his face.

"It's okay, Ita-chan," he said,"I guess Lovino doesn't want to see me."

Oh well, what had Spain been expecting after being rejected every time he came here to offer his feelings? Romano never opened the door when he knocked, the only ones who were impressed with his singing were random passers by and somehow the flowers he left outside the door had always found their way into the trashbin the next time he came to visit.

He chuckled humorlessly at Italy's concerned look.

"I- uh, I'll talk to brother so-" the Italian started, grabbing a hold of Spain's sleeve. "So if you come back tomorrow..."

This time the chuckle turned into a laugh, and Spain smiled as he patted Italy's head.

"It's okay," he said, hearing a second floor window creak. He tilted his head to look up at the window he knew to be Romano's room and smiled. "I won't be coming back."

Italy said nothing when he offered him one last smile before turning around and starting to walk away. Yeah, France was right, Spain nodded to himself. It was time to try something new.

Being mean it was then.

* * *

To Be Continued...

I'm kinda hopping from pairing to pairing... Does it bother you? Oh, and why is England sometimes called Iggy, huh? xD

Comment and criticize!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Woot! I wanted to post a chapter a day, but you know, hey. I have a chronical illness called the Lazies.

And thank you for all the reviews! x3

* * *

They stared at each other in a rather uncomfortable silence. France watched one relatively huge eyebrow twitch and made a wild guess that its bearer was perhaps a bit ticked off. As for the reason of the other's sour mood, he had no idea.

"Ah, bonjour, Arthur." What a nice ice-breaker, really, sometimes France surprised even himself. Sarcasm aside, England wasn't very impressed, his look of _go-away_ hardening in its intensity.

"You're in my way. Move." However awkward it was to bump into each other and not having anything to say, that was just rude, France pouted. Besides, it must have been destiny itself that had made them miraculously meet on the busy streets of London on that very rainy day. Because really, London, it had always been on France's to-do list. Right after England.

When England's face was starting to scream bloody murder if he didn't move, France decided it was best to obey, and so he reluctantly stepped to the side. Only, the Brit had already burnt his short fuse of patience and stepped aside at the same time, in an attempt to walk around the Frenchman.

They both blinked, England gritting his teeth in annoyance and France chuckling, because clichés like these were not his thing. And so they both tried to step out of the way, only to get into each others way. Again.

"What the hell is your problem!?" France watched in fascination as England's anger showed itself in a pretty shade of red on the man's cheeks. The color got darker the deeper the hell he was cursing France into, and the blond thought it was very pretty indeed.

"Are you ignoring me!?" Some passers by sent them curious glances, mostly because England was being very loud and very wet, now that he thought about it. But so was France, because he had spent quite some while now in the rain, just staring at England. Maybe he should have stayed in the coffee shop he had been stalking the man from, watching the other enjoy a cup of tea in the tea house at the other side of the street.

"Why are you even here?" England lowered his voice after realizing that he had gotten a bit too loud with his hate towards everything that was French. He blushed in embarrassment, brushing away the wet hair that was clinging onto his forehead.

"Why, I came to see you," France smiled, letting his love pour.

"Swell," England said, looking away moodily, "now you saw me. Bye."

This time France didn't move, letting the Englishman walk past him before starting to walk three steps behind him. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"Can I come?"

"What!? No! Go away, you're annoying." The Brit barked, turning around to glare at him. But France didn't give, he was persistent, see, that's the key with stubborn people whose asses were too filled with their so-called pride to admit that they were enamored.

He walked over to the annoyed blond and leaned close despite his protests. "But I'm cold and wet and all alone on the enemy's soil," he mourned.

"We haven't been enemies for a very long time, idiot," England said, trying to lean backwards to get away from the French blond but failing in his attempt when the other took a hold of his shoulder.

"Yes," France let out a light laugh, "and for that I am glad." He made sure the air he breathed on England's face was invitingly warm against the other's cold cheeks. He was rewarded with a dark red blush and a fist to his temple. Ouch. And just when the last one had almost healed.

"G-get away from me you lecherous bastard!" With three more or less undignified hops the Englishman was a safe five meters away from his supposed assaulter. He huffed and turned around to continue his way home, hoping the idiot would know better than to follow him there.

But no, France had been around long enough to be able to anticipate things not going his way when they had to do with a certain country that had a lot of dark clouds and rain. With a sigh, he dug a small metal box from the depths of his jacket.

"And here I was kind enough to go to the odd corners of the world to find you this special tea," he said, mocking hurt while watching the Brit halt in mid step. He could swear that England's pupils had widened when he turned to stare at the precious thing in his hands. Oh, the wonders of tea. France would never get what was so great in the taste of it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't appreciate the effect it had on a certain Englishman.

"But since I am not welcome here, maybe I will go have a Boston tea party with young America instead."

"You're a real bastard, you know?" England said weakly and France just shrugged, moving the box in his hand around to see if the other's gaze would follow it. It did.

"All right fine! But if you do something stupid then I have a rifle just the right size to be shoved up your arse."

"Oh, Arthur," France sighed, jogging a bit to catch up to him and walk beside the man. "You should know better than to threaten me with things like that."

It got him a smack to the back of his head, but France kept on laughing joyfully because he was just that good at sneaking into a desired territory.

* * *

To Be Continued...

Yeah. I had something to say but I forgot it as usual. Uh, next I was planning to write from Romano's point of view, then something with America and a certain Canadian polar bear and then it's back to France and England again. Just in case you wanted to know.

Comment and criticize!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

I was supposed to update sooner but I was taken out of town by my buttbuddies. Sorry. ;u;

* * *

Romano was not stalking. He did not care and he most definitely was not worried.

"Stupid Spain," he muttered to himself as he poked his head around the corner to spy on his former caretaker. Spain was at the marketplace, buying groceries no doubt, with a smile on his face too. Romano cursed some more, paying no mind to the children who pointed at the weird man lurking behind the corner.

He felt irritated. Everything had been just fine and dandy a few weeks back, but then that idiot had to ruin it all. The start of this fiasco still made him shiver.

See, here's Romano, minding his own business and munching on a tomato, when Spain comes dancing into the room, arms spread wide and smiling so brightly that it hurts to look at him. This, of course, is nothing new, because idiocy is a state of mind, not an illness that passes over time.

The "I love you, Lovino!" that comes out of the man's mouth is nothing new either, because Romano has heard it enough times already so he just hums "Idiot" against his tomato.

Spain looks a bit unsure because of the lack of reaction and tries to say it again, but this time he has to dodge a half munched on tomato.

"Loviii~" he whines, irritating the shit out of the short tempered young man, making him blush out of sheer anger and mutter something about having to get another tomato to replace the previous one. So Romano stands up from the couch and walks past a panicking Spain who wants to get his love through.

And then there's a strong grip on Romano's wrist, his back colliding with a wall, and when he gets his eyes open again, Spain's staring down at him, his hands resting at the both sides of his head to prevent any attempts of subtle escape.

Romano furrows his brows because he does not take this kind of shit from anyone, especially not some dumpass Spain. But the look in Spain's eyes has changed as well, and it looks like he will not take any shit from Romano either.

There's not even a hint of a smile on his face as he stares, and it makes Romano's irritation falter. He's not familiar with this Spain. He looks like he gets what he wants and the way he's staring at Romano...

"I love you," Spain repeats and Romano _gets it_ already, dammit.

And quite frankly, it scares him shitless.

Just when Spain's leaning down, down and way too close, Romano fists his hand and punches the dangerously approaching lips the heck away from him. The last things he sees is a laughing Spain sprawled on the floor, staring at Romano's flaming red face before he's out of the door.

"Shit," Romano cursed again, snapping out of his embarrassing flashback and drew himself back into the shadows when he saw two Guardia Civil measuring whether or not to ask what business he was going on about. Okay, so, Romano admitted that a black suit and sunglasses might look a bit suspicious, especially on an Italian hiding in some shady alley. And here he was aiming to not be spotted so easily.

But then again, this was all Spain's fault.

...So, _maybe_ Romano had played a little hard to get by locking himself into his room for all this time. And _maybe_ he had flat out rejected Spain more times than he could count.

But maybe he had filled his belly with the delicious tomatoes that Spain had tried to woo him with while listening to his serenades from inside his room, blushing madly all the while because it was just that embarrassing.

The southern part of Italy let out an exhausted sigh, before daring another peek of the Spaniard. The other nation had paid for his groceries by now and now stood there, exchanging pleasantries with some local girls. The sight made Romano grip the edge of the building hard enough to make his fingers hurt.

"Dammit, Spain," he said, voice more a whine than his usual annoyed tone, when he realized that the last time he saw that smile was when Spain told him he wasn't coming back anymore. "Don't give up on me, stupid."

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To Be Continued...

I think Romano's a little bit of denial, a covard and wanting Spain all to himself. xD So cute you are, Romano!

Comment and criticize!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Thank you all for telling me where 'Iggy' comes from! xD

* * *

"Who?"

America watched the polar bear tilt its head in wonder, obviously feigning ignorance because _everyone_ knew who America was. "America," he said through gritted teeth. "You're not a very smart polar bear, are you?"

"No," the white mass of fur said, shaking its head. "I meant who would eat this?"

The two of them stared at each other, then turning to look at the ominous plate of- well, _something_ on the floor where America had put it for the animal to eat. The blond had to blink his eyes when he thought he saw the food actually try to crawl away from the plate but sighed in relief when it had been just his imagination.

"Come on, it's not _that_ bad," America tried to convince Kumajirou. "I think it's..." he paused, taking another look. "Fish and chips? Yes. Delicious, Brits love it."

"Piss and shits?" The bear repeated, its nose twitching in disapproval.

And America lost it completely, falling backwards on the floor, laughing his lungs out. "P-piss and- oh, OH! Iggy would LOVE that!!" he barked, clutching his stomach and inhaling the dust on the floor enough to make him cough. Kumajirou wasn't as amused, just shaking its head before turning to leave the plate of feces and the crazy man that had brought it to him.

"H-he would _kill_ me if I told him that," America breathed out, his body still spasming from the left overs of his laughing spree as he watched the bear's hide from an upside down perspective. "He would kill..." he repeated, tone still amused if anything.

But then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Quickly he scrambled back to his feet and ran up to the retreating polar bear, squeezing it into his chest. "Hey you," he said, grinning evilly as the bear tilted its head to look at him.

"Who?" it asked.

"_You_ who. We're going to England's place and you're going to say that to his face!"

"No," Kumajirou said, starting to struggle with the strength a bear would be expected to have. But hell, America was a country with a ridiculous amount of power, so he held onto the animal stubbornly.

"You're always with Canada," America cursed, holding on even when the bear got all its four feet on the ground and started to walk away, dragging the blond with it. "Always in the way!" He huffed, gathering all his strength to hoist the heavy thing up. "But not for long, hehe."

"Canada?" Kumajirou asked and stopped struggling.

"Yes, Canada! Do you know how awkward it is to-" America started but stopped short when he followed the gaze of the animal in his arms, who had its head turned to stare out of the window. And there was Canada, walking through the lawn with a carefree smile on his face.

"Shit." The bear let out a small 'oof' when it was dropped to the ground, as America ran in circles a couple of times before darting to the small closet that Canada had under the stairs. Before closing the door, he glared at Kumajirou. "I was never here, got it?"

"Who?" The bear asked.

"Exactly." America closed the door behind him, settling to crouch in the small, dark space he had to share with weird junk like a cardboard figure of a teen aged wizard that had a scar on his forehead. A good friend of England's, probably. He had to muffle his snort when the front door opened and his brother walked in, calling out to Kumajirou.

"I'm home~!" Canada said, settling the plastic bag he had with him onto the floor, taking off his shoes and walking into the living room where he had heard small shuffling noises. He smiled when he saw his polar bear sprawled on the ground.

"I'm sorry it took so- What is that?" The smile turned into a confused look when he caught the sight of some suspicious dark pile of- _something_ on a plate that had been laid on the floor. Inside a closet, America cursed himself for forgetting the plate.

The bear watched the food for a while before turning to look at its master, remembering only bits and pieces of what had happened just now. "The Brits love it," it repeated.

"They would..." Canada said, as he picked up the thing and took a closer look. "Wait, England was here?"

"He tried to feed it to me," The bear muttered as it stood up and walked over to the bag of groceries that Canada had brought, sniffing through the contents.

"Why would he do that?" The Canadian dared to lean closer and take in the smell, only to regret it a second later. "Ugh, his food is always bad but this must be the worst."

"And what's with him coming over and trying to feed it to my polar bear, eh?" He watched said animal use its natural hunting instincts and unwrap a salmon that had been rolled up in paper.

"That's it! I'm going to go have a word with him." Really, it was both trespassing and trying to give his pet a stomach ace. There was no way Canada would tolerate that even if it all was done in the name of England trying to improve his cooking skills. "Come on, Kumajirou." He took the animal from the floor and walked out.

In the meanwhile America was fighting off the cardboard figure that was coming on to him, using the excuse of having lost its balance the moment Canada had closed the door shut with a bang. Geez, things did not go as smoothly as America had planned. He could not allow England and Canada meet and laugh at his failed attempt at assassination!

He stumbled out of the closet, bringing half the junk inside it with him, fell to the ground and hit his nose while he was at it, too. Swearing, he quickly stood up and ran after his brother with the speed only a true hero would have.

* * *

To Be Continued...

I find Kumajirou to be a very forgetful bear. That's why it didn't bother to correct that it was America who tried to feed it to him, not England. Or something?

Oh well, what was it supposed to be next? France and England?

Comment and criticize!


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

The table in England's kitchen was to France's liking. While it was far from aesthetic with its murky color, heavy build and having an unfinished touch to it, it was solid and wide. The Frenchman chuckled a little as he ran a finger along the piece of furniture, earning a suspicious look from England who was busy boiling his tea.

Oh yes, England would look wonderful bending over the thing, desperately straining his neck to meet his eyes, letting out small whimpers when France would trickle his hot, beloved tea on the man's naked back, the liquid falling down, down all the way to-

"France?"

'_Please, Francis, please_,' he would plead.

"Francis!"

The tone in England's voice did certainly not match the one he had just imagined, and so with a pained sigh, France dragged his mind back to reality. "Oui?"

The Brit had his arms crossed, looking anything but happy as he glared at his unwanted guest. "I know that look," he snarled. "I thought I said no funny business or you're out of the house."

"Yes, yes," France sighed, reaching for the towel that England had thrown into his face when they had entered the gloomy house and started to dry his hair with it. "I was just thinking, no need to get so suspicious."

"_Thinking_ my ass," England scoffed, turning back to his tea-boiling fun, not noticing where France's gaze dropped, his ears hearing nothing but the last said word. "With you panting like a dog and face red like a firetruck, I'm sure you were just troubled by some hardcore politics."

"You know me so well, _mon chéri__,_" France chuckled, bringing the towel to wipe his face. The piece of fabric smelled a bit odd, certainly not of the familiar flowery detergent that he was used to back at home. Maybe it was the scent of England, he thought as he took another sniff, deciding that he liked that idea and put the towel over his head to be surrounded by it. His hair was a mess anyway, thanks to the rain.

After finishing preparing the tea, England walked to the table with two cups, handing one of the to France while he kept the other one all to himself, settling to sit as far from the taller blond as the table would allow. France frowned a bit, standing up with the excuse of not wanting to drink his tea black and wandered into the kitchen to get some sugar.

"You bastard!" he suddenly heard England cry from behind him. He would have been a bit startled had he not been expecting this. France said nothing, just smirked to himself and opened the cupboard he knew would contain sugar. "I- I knew that the smell was- but I thought- I thought that maybe," England continued on, voice coated with both anger and disappointment.

"This is just plain old Earl Gray!" He whipped around, pointing France with an accusing finger for not carrying out his promises of a wondrous rare tea.

"So it is," France smiled, walking back to the table with his sugar, this time taking a seat right next to the Englishman. "But it's your favorite, so it's okay, yes?"

The only answer he received was a thick line of curses, but France guessed it was all right because they ended as soon as England started sipping his tea, not resorting to violence like the other had expected. No, France was no masochist (well, if only a little bit), he was just talking with the voice of experience. With a content sigh, France settled to watch England drink his tea and try very hard to not acknowledge that he was being stared at.

"You lied about the tea," the Brit finally broke the silence that France had found rather comfortable. There was a shy sideway glance before England turned to look away. "I assume you lied about being in love with me as well."

France could not see his face, but he made a wild guess that it was tinted red by now. Apparently he took too much time musing over how hot a flushed England would look, because the other couldn't take the silence and broke out in a forced laugh. "Of course you did, you'd do anything to get laid." He muttered, taking another sip of his tea. "Desperate bastard."

"Arthur-" France tried but was interrupted by the Englishman who turned to glare at him, more angry than anything.

"And you even made it a world wide joke. I don't care if you enjoy that kind of attention but please don't include _me_ in it!"

Ah, France though, as his heart skipped a beat at the sight of England's red and frustrated face. Try as he might, there were just some things even a thick layer of sarcasm couldn't hide. Unlike his voice and expression of angry, England's eyes were more embarrassed and unsure.

"You are precious," France said with all the affection in him, smiling as if he hadn't just been accused of being nothing but a lecherous bastard. England jerked back when he reached out a hand to touch his face, cheeks gaining more color.

"S-so what is it, you git? Make some god damn sense already!"

How confusing. If one's feelings could be said more clearly than in the most used three word sentence, then please, by all means, teach it to France. Of course, there was always body language and the French blond would have been more than happy to jump on poor England but the voice of experience told him that that would only end up with a prosecution of rape.

With the '_the French can't be trusted_' and body contact only adding fuel England's suspicions that France was only after sex, the taller blond was at a loss on what to do.

"Je t'aime," he simply said, face serious and eyes boring into the other's. England couldn't take it for too long and took a hold of the towel still resting on the Frenchman's blond head and pulled at it so that it would hang over those blue, piercing eyes.

The hand fisting on the piece of cloth brushed France's forehead and it made him smirk. England's had was shaking.

He heard the Brit inhale and prepared to listen to whatever he was about to say, but they both jumped in their chairs instead, when the front door was banged open and an annoyingly familiar American accent broke the magic.

"It's a lie! He's lying!!"

"W-what!? He's lying!?" England shrieked, quickly pulling his hand from France's face as if it was something that would burn his arm dead.

"Eh? W-what are you doing here, Al?" A fourth voice no one had noticed in the room spoke.

"Canada!" France cried like a delighted father, tearing away the towel covering his head and saw the nation covering behind a corner, looking guilty as if he was just caught doing naughty things.

England had his mouth open, not fast at reacting at all, having a hard time deciding who he'd have to be pissed off at. "You bloody brats! How the hell did you get in here!?"

"U-um, the door was open so I just-" Canada tried to explain.

"It's not open! It's _broken_ thanks to your no-good brother!" said brother gave no mind to the foul temper radiating from the Brit, walking up to his brother instead, giving a dirty look to the polar bear in the other's arms before turning on his dazzling smile of _I-did-nothing-wrong_.

"Say Matt, England is just a senile old man, you really shouldn't listen to a word he says."

"Eh?"

"You know, about the food."

"How do you know about that?"

"You mean you didn't ask him about it yet?"

"...No."

"..."

"..."

"Well!" America turned to the two older nations, laughing even louder than usual, tuning out any further questions his brother would have, thus preventing himself from digging his grave any deeper. "You look dazzling with your unusually curly hair, France!"

France blushed a little, self consciously tugging on his hair in an attempt make it straighter. The rain had made it curlier and messy and being so ungroomed made him feel out of character.

By now England was not a happy host and he showed this by tightening his grip on his teacup enough to break the poor thing. The broken piece of fine china was the last straw, no matter if it was his own fault, and he stood up, his chair letting out a rough creak before falling to the ground.

"Get out, get out, get out! I don't want to deal with you people," he all but screamed while clutching his hair, and France thought that he had maybe seen his other eye twitch like a madman's. Chuckling, he leaned back on his chair, somewhat eager to watch the ex-pirate hand their son's asses to them. Though he did have a soft spot for Canada, the boy did deserve some spanking for interrupting papa's courting time.

But there was no show to be seen because England was quick to turn to him and snarl, "That goes to you too, French bastard."

"_Moi_? But I've behaved like a good boy!" He protested.

"Bollocks. Don't think I haven't felt your eyes all over me or know where your mind has been."

France opened his mouth to deny everything but the look England was giving him made him smile, stand up and usher the American brothers out of the house instead.

"Say, Canada," he started after they were outside, safe from the British rage. "When did you slip into the house?"

"I was there before the two of you came. The door was open so I let myself and decided to wait," the Canadian said, walking between France and his brother.

"My, my, my. You were there the whole time? You sneaky little thing~"

"I- It's not _my_ fault you didn't notice me."

France just laughed, only a bit apologetic. Though he did watch with great amusement as the louder brother tried to walk near the Canadian and pull him away from older nation at the same time. "C'mon Matt. Let's go home already," he whined.

"We're already on our way, bro. Stop complaining." In his foolish hopes that Canada had forgotten why he had came here in the first place, America brightened up instantly, taking a hold of his brother's arm and starting to drag him back to their continent.

"Bye then, Francis!" France heard the Canadian shout. "And good luck with England!"

Sure. Luck. Just what he needed. He went back home and asked a pharmacist if they had some in store.

They said it was out of stock. What a bummer.

* * *

To Be Continued...

You know what I discovered? France/Russia is pretty hot. I also adore Spain/Russia. So since I couldn't decide, I thought that France/Spain/Russia would be awesome. Ah, but if I have Spain and France then there _has_ to be Prussia as well. Then there's Spain/Romano and France/England that are my favorite pairings no matter how hot the others are. So that would make it France/Spain/Russia/Prussia/Romano/England, right? And _then_ I was like, fuck this, if it's already such an orgy, then why don't I include the whole world while I'm at it?

And that's about when things got out of hand. So I stopped thinking about it. Though I still think that it would be awesome if someone wrote me a France/Spain/Russia. xD~ (For some reason I can't see Russia on top...) /end random musings

Comment and criticize!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

One Wednesday afternoon found Romano screaming his lungs out, the windows resonating as an aftereffect from the high pitched cry of terror.

"Chigiii!"

"Brother, it's just me!" Veneziano said, smiling even after the scream had turned into a waterfall of curses.

Well, what had the other been expecting, sneaking up on a napping Romano? He tried to justify his embarrassing slip by thinking that it _could_ have been France invading his obscenely wide personal bubble, because really, everyone would be freaked out to wake up to find themselves halfway being raped. But no, it wasn't France he woke up to, but his little brother, pushing his face close enough that Romano would just about consider it to be incest (if getting their curls tangled already wasn't.)

"W-what the hell do you want!?" he demanded and tried to pull back a bit so that at least their breaths wouldn't mingle, but as he was, lying on the couch after a nap and all that, there really was nowhere to retreat. Veneziano blinked his curious eyes, not leaning back an inch even if his brother was now awake and out for blood. Then he just smiled like the retard he was.

"Do you know what I think, brother?" No, he didn't. And Veneziano would do good to read his mood of _bitch-please-do-I-look-like-I-give-a-fuck_. But of course he wouldn't do so, he never did. How silly of Romano to even expect that.

Instead of an answer, Romano decided to show his lack of interest by pushing his brother away from him and attempt to stand up and walk away all the way to the bathroom. But as fine a plan as it had been, he was stopped short when Veneziano's smile turned into a frown the moment he was being pushed away, and soon enough Romano found himself being pushed back against the couch while his little brother's ass landed on his stomach.

"Chigigi~ get the hell off me!" Romano's face was bright red by now, from both anger and lack of proper blood circulation in strategically important places because, even as thin as he was, Veneziano had to put all his weight to keeping him still.

"I think," the younger Italian continued while balancing on his struggling brother like a freaking acrobat, "that you should seduce Spain-nii-chan!"

And would you look at that. The struggling died right off, leaving a Romano who resembled a corpse with frightening accuracy. Pale and unmoving. Not that Veneziano noticed, too enlightened thinking that the lack of struggling was a sign of approval.

"Great idea, right?"

It. Was. _Not_. But Romano had a hard time expressing his opinion through gritted teeth and a face that was starting to burn so hot that it felt like his skin was going to melt away.

"W-what the hell are you saying, idiot!?"

Veneziano's close-eyed smile turned into a pitying frown. "Because," his baby brother started, voice whining and a bit sad. "I feel bad when I think about you sleeping alone when I spend my nights at Germany's place."

Romano felt half moved by his brother's concern and half angry that he assumed he spent every night alone, as if he couldn't woo some nice lady to keep him company.

"All alone, hugging the pillow and crying for me to come home and-" the northern Italy let out a yelp when Romano summoned enough strength to get the annoyance off him.

"Shut up! Like I'd do that." Romano sat up on the couch and aimed a kick at his brother, growling in irritation when Veneziano managed to roll out of the way in time.

"But you _will_ seduce Antonio," his little brother said, standing up and dusting his pants. He crossed his arms as he turned to look at Romano.

"I will not," he snorted this time, as if his brother was pursuing a lost case.

"But you _like_ him," Veneziano insisted. "And he loves you, so I think you should do something about it because to me it looks like Antonio-nii-chan is trying to get over you!"

"I- I do not like him!" He was only provided with a knowing look from his brother, the expression on his face saying something along the lines '_so how's denial treating you?_'

"Brother, if you don't admit it then I'm going to reveal every single detail about my relationship with Germany." The beast! Veneziano was a devil in disguise, it was proven now, as Romano stared at his squinted eyed smile.

Giving him no time to ponder over his options, the northern part of Italy started ahead. "This one night when I sneaked into his bed he-"

"Stop it!" Romano wailed, clutching his hair in surrender, glaring at his baby brother with all the venom he had in him. Veneziano kept staring at him expectantly, taking a breath to continue his tales of horror when the silence continued on too long for his liking.

"So maybe..." Romano started before the other would. "Maybe I find him, uh, slightly more agreeable than any other male I've had the displeasure to encounter, dammit." He mumbled, looking away with a blush on his face.

Veneziano blinked, a wide, disturbing smile slowly crawling on his face before he let out the most high pitched scream a man could manage and jumped to hug his brother. "You looove him~!"

"I didn't say that!" he yelled while trying to pry his pushy brother away from him.

"Now you _have_ to seduce him!" Veneziano all but giggled, rubbing his cheek against his less enthusiastic brother's.

"Why the hell would I listen to you?" Romano barked, wriggling a hand between them and tried to push his brother's affection seeking face off. To his surprise, Veneziano was the one to pull away to look at him in all seriousness.

"Because I'm getting laid while you're not?"

Well. _Ouch_.

Not to say of course that Romano _couldn't_ get laid. Pfft, he'd make them ladies come to his bed in crowds if he wanted to. His brother didn't look that convinced.

"So what does Antonio like?" Veneziano questioned, apparently trying to help him come up with a battle plan.

"Tomatoes and sleeping, I guess." Might as well play along for now, Romano thought. It's not like he'd have to do any of it in the end.

"That's it!" his brother squealed, latching onto him all over again.

"I give him a tomato?" Romano scoffed, wondering if his brother really would think an idea that plain was worth the look of pure genius on his face.

"No. You molest him in his sleep!" He said, hopping onto his feet and bouncing excitedly in front of Romano. "I did a lot of naughty things to Germany when he was asleep. Ah, but he's such a light sleeper that he often woke up~"

"What!?" Tuning professionally out the part that had something to do with a dirty wurst-loving bastard, Romano couldn't believe what his dimwitted brother had just suggested. Well, it was brilliant in its own way, Romano though, mind fighting to be in denial. Spain was no light sleeper, and would definitely not wake up.

"Okay then, that's what you'll do!" The younger Italian said, skipping out of the room, a self-satisfied smile adoring his face. He stopped at the door, peeking around the corner to look at his brother one last time. "And please tell me how it worked out!"

"Wait! I-" But it was already too late and the only response Romano got was the front door banging shut.

"Merda."

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

I was thinking... Molesting someone in their sleep is hardly seducing, is it now? But thanks for smiling and nodding as if it was. xD

* * *

It never ceased to impress either of them when Prussia materialized out of no where, uninvited, as if he had actually been told where and when everyone would be. That's why they never bothered to call him. Because he would show up anyway.

"So!" Prussia cackled, hands on hips as he took a good look at both Spain and France. "You bastards look as miserable as ever."

"The same can be said about you," France pointed out, taking notice of the dark bags under red eyes. Prussia dismissed the discovery with a wave of a hand and leaned over the café table to poke Spain on the cheek.

"Have you gotten anywhere near some Italian brand design pants by now?" He stopped poking when Spain showed a serious lack of attention, eyes dazed and mind obviously elsewhere.

"He's changed tactics," France offered when Prussia slumped back against his chair, pouting his cheeks out. A pretty waitress made him straighten up though, and the ex-nation smiled quite charmingly as the young lass put their drinks on the table. "I suggested being mean because that's sure to make little Romano come running to him, don't you think?" France continued, taking a good long look at the babe when she turned away from their table and started to make her way back inside the café.

"I think he's been avoiding and ignoring him for now." They both looked at the third party occupying their table leaning against his arm and letting out wistful sighs every now and then.

"Man looks like he's having some serious withdrawal symptoms," Prussia snorted, crossing his arms against the table. "But I'm sure that'll have the attention seeking whore running right to him."

Prussia's eyebrow twitched slightly at the '_takes one to know one_' that France so tactfully coughed into his fist, but decided to ignore it. Instead he opened his eyes wide, face masked with utter surprise.

"Is that Romano?" He gasped, voice so uncharacteristic that only _special_ children would not notice it to be fake.

Spain had never been called special. He could remember being called dumb, dense and a doofus, though. "Where!?"

"Behind you," Prussia aided, lifting his hand on Spain's cheek when he was about to turn to look behind him, stopping the motion and finally getting the man's attention. "Don't look. You're supposed to be ignoring him, remember?"

Spain gave a slow nod and continued to sit on his chair, unmoving and shoulders stiff. He took the glass filled with... whiskey? Who had ordered him whiskey? He took a look at Prussia and his half empty glass of beer and France with his coffee. Shrugging, he threw the liquid down his throat.

"He's staring at you~" Prussia said, his convincing face starting to crack into a wicked grin. Not that Spain noticed.

France sighed, leaning back on his chair and decided to run his hand along Prussia's thigh because it was just downright naughty to tease poor Spain like that. He sighed in content, right hand skillfully dodging Prussia's attempts to get rid of the intruder while his left leg kept on running up and down Spain's calf.

"So how are things with Hungary?" France asked casually, sipping his coffee, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. The question caused a pause in Prussia's defenses and the French soldier of _l'amour_ took this opportunity to slide his hand up, up and up, nearing the vital regions.

"Oh~ He's blushing, Spain!" Prussia continued, not bothering to answer his friend, finding the teasing of the Spaniard much more fun to do. He had his hand on the Frenchman's and down, down went the hand on his thigh, because Prussia was just that _awesome_.

Spain had his eyes wide, nails scratching the wooden table as he fought not to look behind him. "He's totally fingering that curl of his." The tanned man was shaking by now, chewing on his lower lip.

"How's it going with England?" Spain asked the French blond just to distract himself. Prussia would have none of that and managed one last shout of "He's touching himself while moaning your name," before France had his hand on his crotch and gave it a hard enough squeeze to make a pale cheek connect with the table and tears fall from red eyes.

"Loviiii~!" Spain shouted, clumsily bouncing up from his chair and turned around so fast that his neck gave an unpleasant sounding crack. His eyes saw no Romano, only weird looks from passers by.

"I couldn't help but notice that you didn't answer my question," France breathed, leaning closer to the severely wounded Prussian.

"T-there's nothing to tell," the other gasped, trying to pry the hand away. It hurt, goddammit! That bastard should know better than to attack there.

"Oh Gilbert. Your lies do not amuse me in the slightest."

"All right, all right!" Prussia cried, not even wanting to know what the French bastard would do if he didn't give the man what he wanted. "So, I kinda made a move on her. Well, a lot of moves, because hey, she's just playing hard to get, right?"

"Right." Even though the word generally meant agreeing, the tone of voice sure as hell didn't.

"But she's always hanging with that Austrian dickhead, yeah," Prussia continued, sighing in relief when France withdrew his hand. "And so I decided to be a man about it and go to her and ask The Question!"

"Which was?"

"Me or him, baby?"

France quirked an eyebrow, already ready to sympathize with his friend. "And she said Austria?"

"Hell no! Not my girl!" Prussia laughed, crossing his arms. "She said: "Why should I choose when I can have both?""

They both ignored the small whine Spain made about the lack of a blushing Romano.

"Which would be okay with me," the Prussian went on. "Only, I want nothing to do with that snob."

France had a hard time understanding his friend's problem, because really, sharing was caring the last time he checked.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I have yet to shag the Englishman."

"Romano..."

Simultaneously, the bad friend trio let out a disappointed sigh.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

I didn't plan on Prussia/Hungary(/Austria) but someone said they liked the pairing so I was like, what the hell. So yeah. I dunno. xD


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the character used on this silly thing.

Whoops! I'm sorry for this taking so long, but I was kidnapped by the kink meme! Ooh, the things it made me write. D: *trauma* I fought back a bit though, and now it was gracious enough to grant me autonomy, so I can occasionally come back here and write my own stuff. I'm aiming for full independence, but we'll see what happens. :)

So! Where were we? Er... I think it's time Lovi molests some sleeping!Antonio, yeah. xD I'm terribly sorry if you find him ooc!!

* * *

It was late at night when Romano found himself standing outside his childhood home, staring at the door like it had done him personal wrong. Which it had in the past, but that was hundreds of years ago, and no one was petty enough to hold grudges for that long.

Romano kicked the obstacle anyway. "Serves you right."

Well then, he mused, cracking his fingers as he took out a hairpin from out of his pocket and knelt down to be on eye-level with the lock. He could have just used the spare key, he supposed, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember where Spain kept it. Probably in the fifth tomato on the right, third path after taking ten steps from the tree. Or something stupid like that.

"..." Romano put the hair pin back into his pocket after staring at the door for a while, then getting up and trying the handle. And his suspicions turned to be correct when the door opened, unlocked to begin with. Damn that Spaniard, wasn't he concerned that someone might walk in, like say, _France_, and molest him in his sleep or something like that?

Oh well. "I claim Spain for Italy," he muttered as he stepped inside, _locking_ the door behind him.

He was quick to make his way into the man's bedroom, only getting lost in the way twice. Seriously, was the place build this huge just to keep the country safe from intruders in case he was too lazy to lock the front door? Not that it mattered right now, Romano blushed as he found the right door.

Never mind France, _he _was being the sexual predator here! Stupid little brother and his stupid little ideas. But he was here now, so he might as well go with the plan. It wasn't like Spain was ever going to know if Romano grew to regret this and left before Spain woke up, which would be somewhere around twelve o'clock next day. That left plenty of time for Romano to do whatever, feel bad and flee.

So he opened the door, never minding the creak it let when he pushed it open. Spain was exactly where he had expected him to be, sprawled all over his bed and snoring away, the moonlight pushing through the windows giving enough light for Romano to see details.

Briefly he wondered how the idiot had failed to close the curtains again and how hot the morning sun would be pouring in, but still, Romano thought a small _thank God_ because there was no way he was going to go groping about in the dark. Strangely confident, he stripped down as he approached the bed, tossing his clothes here and there as he went, never much of a neat person. Not while in Spain's house, anyway.

Completely naked, he stood beside Spain's bed, fighting down the conscience that was constantly reminding him that Romano wouldn't want this to be done to him in his sleep. But whatever, Spain had been declaring his ever lasting love for quite some while now and had been practically begging for this to happen. _Begging_.

The bed dipped under his weight, when Romano climbed on it, eyes never leaving Spain's face. Carefully, as if it was necessary for Spain to remain asleep and not wake up on him, he leaned his other arm over the Spaniard's body, trapping him beneath Romano.

Never mind the morning sun, he was burning hot _now_ and Romano could swear the beat of his heart was wild enough to make the ground shake. Or maybe it was just him shaking, sweat forming on his brow as his mind screamed over and over what he was about to do.

Spain took that moment to shift a bit in his sleep, tossing his head to the side and parting his lips. The sudden movement was enough to still Romano completely, his loud heart stopping to beat altogether as he froze in fright. Seconds ticked by, but nothing else happened.

Slowly Romano allowed himself to relax, letting out a long sigh, more annoyed that relieved.

"You goddamn bastard," he cursed, more in his element now with his brow furrowed and irritation filling him. Taking a hold of Spain chin, he turned the Spaniard's head to face him.

"Don't you dare to look away now," he told the other as if he could actually hear him. "This is important, dammit."

Without giving it anymore thought, Romano leaned down, pressing his lips against the other's before his mind could convince him how regretful this would make him. It was just a small, light peck really, and even if it made the blush on his cheeks deepen its color, Romano chose to ignore it for now.

He withdrew his head a bit further, guiding the hand on Spain's cheek to brush his dark hair that too much a mess to let Romano's fingers run through it freely. This wasn't so bad, he supposed, not with no one to judge him and calling him names (_Tomato_ Antonio called him, like Lovino was a thing he could just gobble up... _wait a minute_.)

"Stupid," he muttered, a smile crawling on his face when he leaned down and went for another kiss. It was odd to be the one to initiate this, when usually it was Spain with all his clinging and passion that poured over him, and although Romano couldn't deny the kiss feeling nice with Spain's scent flooding his senses and the familiar closeness tingling his bare skin in not so familiar excitement, it just didn't feel right when the other remained unresponsive no matter how much Romano moved his lips against Spain's.

Spain began to have difficulties breathing through his nose, his inhaling getting more and more heavy the longer Romano kept occupying his mouth in other ways, and to Romano's dismay, it was Spain who broke the kiss by turning away. It surprised the Italian, and once again he took his time to stay still and make sure Spain hadn't woken up, trying to steady his own breathing as he did so.

Really, maybe he had gone a bit too far, having had the unconscious guy tell him when to stop before Romano too would have run out of air. With an embarrassed sigh, he fell on the bed with his full weight to lay beside Spain.

"I'm staying the night only because I'm too tired to go back home," he told Spain, receiving a snore in return.

"So you better not think anything of this when you wake up tomorrow." With that he wiggled himself underneath the covers, keeping a decent enough distance from his former boss. For a while Romano just settled on his side, staring at Spain and wondered how utterly calm he was feeling despite what he had just done.

Romano hesitated a bit, then leaning in to plant one last kiss on Spain's cheek, withdrawing quickly and turning so that his back was facing the other. "But I'll kill you if you continue to ignore me and act like nothing happened!"

Feeling a bit more satisfied that he felt ashamed, Romano fell asleep. Or tried to, at least.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

So there. Uh, I kinda completely forgot what I had planned. So who do you wanna see next? Fruk, maybe? Spain waking up? Aah, I dunno.

Comment and critisize!


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia!

This time around I shall throw France and England at you!

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England wasn't exactly sure what he was doing at the moment, standing outside a certain Frenchman's door with a bottle of whiskey in hand, most of the liquid the bottle had contained already chucked down his throat and doing wonders to his system.

First of all, he supposed, he was here to make it clear that he was not playing hard to get. If it was his lack of an answer that made France pull this courting act then he would have to make it stop with a clear rejection, because being played with was the least he wanted to be.

Still, if France's feelings somehow proved to be genuine, then... he wasn't really sure what to do. All he knew was that there had to be some kind of a closure to this all or else there'd be no end to it because they had the rest of forever to dance around the subject and quite frankly, as short a while as this had been going on, England was quite tired of this game. As much as he hated to admit it, he owed an answer to both himself and Francis.

Just having dragged himself outside the man's door had been a feat in itself, so much of a nervous wreck was he. And that was exactly why he had resorted to alcohol to soothe his nerves. It had not been a good idea, though, it never was. If England was aware of that fact right at that moment, he wasn't sure, though he could agree that maybe he shouldn't have drowned so much of it before coming, if how his hand went on ahead to knock on the door on its own accord was anything to judge by.

"Arthur?" Francis asked upon opening the door, brow rising to judge the bottle still being held in his hand. Without providing much of a greeting, the Briton pushed his way inside, cheeks flushed from the consumed alcohol.

"I won't have you causing havoc here while you're drunk, just so you know," the other said, not doing much to stop Arthur from invading his house any further.

"Shut your mouth." With a bit wobbly steps, England managed his way into the living room and unceremoniously sat on the couch, glaring daggers at the nearest thing he managed to focus his gaze on.

"And you call yourself a gentleman..." His host rolled his eyes, not far behind in entering the room. "What brings you here?"

What brought him here, the man dared to ask. England had thought it was obvious if he went through all the trouble to show up at the man's house. Still, France's eyes remained honestly curious as he kept his gaze on England.

"Do you love me?" England slurred after a stretching silence, glad that he was drunk enough to not realize to grow embarrassed.

France seemed more surprised at his question that he ought to have been, but soon his expression softened into something warm that made it impossible for England to look at him anymore. Only a few steps, and the man was standing in front of him, smiling and as honest as a Frenchman could be. "That's what I've told you, over and over."

"Then..." At that point, Arthur felt his world lurch, eyes fighting to keep focus and he had to bring his poisoned head between his hands to regain some stability. In a second, France was kneeling before him, more out of familiarity that concern.

"Drinking just to get drunk is not very healthy, Arthur," he heard Francis scold, amusement hidden somewhere in those words. "You should know that after all these years."

A hand came to brush the bangs from his forehead and it made the Briton to raise his head, only to find the other's face really close to his own. It wasn't like this was the first time this man had invaded his personal space, but now that it mattered, those lips remained where they were, inches away and unmoving, almost like they didn't desire his skin like they always seemed to do.

He didn't quite know what he wanted from Francis, but the world rarely made any sense when he was intoxicated. So he frowned and leaned closer and frowned even more, when French bastard pulled back, keeping the however small distance between them.

"What?" England demanded, not quite registering how odd it was that his kiss had just been denied by France of all things breathing on earth.

"You're drunk," the other said, a pleased smile on his lips.

"Well observed." His words were dripping with sarcasm and England raised his eyebrows as if to dare the other blond to say much more about it.

"Someone like you might think they were taken advantage of when sober enough." And that being said, France was about to raise to his feet, probably to take England somewhere to clear his mind. The Englishman would have none of that, though, because hell, the reason why he was drunk in the first place was to stupefy his mind enough to forget reason and go with what felt was right.

France's eyes grew wide when he felt a hand pull at his hair, his body that was already halfway up falling back down and his knees connecting with the floor painfully. "Just kiss me," he could hear England growl into his ear, a familiar hint of danger in his tone that made delicious shivers run up and down France's body. Still, the other was drunk. Very much so.

"But you-" France started, unfamiliar with these restraints he had adopted since thinking that England would not buy his true feelings through touches. What stopped him from finishing whatever he was about to say was England himself, though, and what else could France have done but to let the words die when a pair of clumsy lips were so desperately trying to pleasure him.

England leaned closer and closer, body moving on its own since the mind was nowhere to be found. His arms had sneaked their way around France's neck and shoulders and soon enough he found himself stumbling off the couch, right into the Frenchman's arms.

"Why do you sound so happy?" England panted, parting their lips just to stare at the other with half lidded eyes. The little noises France had been making were less aroused and more delighted and for someone trying to please and get pleased, it was a bit discouraging.

"How do you feel about me?" France asked him instead of answering, his arms tightly around England to keep him in place.

"You're a stupid, wine-obsessed git," England said, arching his neck when France nuzzled it with his bearded chin. "And _French_," he added, as if that was the last nail to the box of insults.

"And you are a thickheaded old drunkard, _Angleterre_," was laughed against his skin, followed by lips that pressed against his neck, not to leave a mark but to make him shiver because the touch was so light.

"Do you love me?" France asked then, backing away from his neck and looked at his flushed face expectantly.

"That's stupid," England snorted, a bit bitter and amused at the same time. "We're not like humans."

"I'm aware," the other agreed, finding this to be a poor moment for a reminder that political intercourse was something they would (fortunately) never be able to put aside. Getting romantically involved with a nation was like being married with a prostitute, really. Depending on how you interpreted "political intercourse", of course. France wasn't ashamed to admit that his way contained less politics and more intercourse.

Putting that aside as it would do nothing to keep this thick-browed, vulgar brute in his arms, trying to kiss him silly and strip down at the same time, reeking of alcohol more than France's nose could handle. So while he was still not intoxicated from England, France took the effort to be serious one more time.

"France is off limits for the likes of you, but Francis Bonnefoy was given a choice," he said, running his hand through the other's hair to grab a hold of it and force England to look at his face when the words seemed to fall to deaf ears due to the amount of concentration removing a shirt required. "And what little he can offer, he would like you to have it."

England snorted again, finding more humor and less romance in what was being said. "And what would he like in return?" Because nothing in this world came for free. Nothing at all.

France just sighed contently, not minding how the hands fiddling on his belt were kind of ruining the mood he would have liked the situation to have. Yet, this setting was strangely expected, seeing how it _was_ England of all people he had lost his heart to.

"How about you be honest with me for once in your life?" He suggested as England pushed him all the way down on the floor.

A smirk was bitten onto his neck and something was mumbled that England would grow to regret when he would wake up the next morning in France's silk-sheeted bed with nothing but a hangover to keep him company.

"In that case Arthur Kirkland will always resent you."

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_To Be Continued..._

I'm not entirely sure what happened in there... but yeah, this story is labeled under humor, so something humorous, I suppose?

I can't really imagine countries having same kind of relationships as humans do, and I kind of imagine their thoughts about what is considered cheating to be pretty vague. Then again, I like to think that "political intercourse" is in all actuality pure politics, but since it was France, I felt like including perverted things in there.

Comment and Criticize~!


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